


The Return of the Nightingale

by AuroraCloud



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9280424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraCloud/pseuds/AuroraCloud
Summary: Martha returns to the Hub sooner than Jack would expect. They find solace in each other's company, talk about Doctor, and explore what else they might share.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/gifts).



> Set after Doctor Who S3 and during Torchwood S2, some time after the episode "A Day in the Death".

"You said I could come back any time." There is a question in Martha's eyes, nevertheless – one of the loveliest pairs of eyes Jack has seen, by the way, and he has seen many.

"And I meant it," he reassures her. He squeezes her shoulder affectionately, letting his touch linger, because why not? Her arm feels comforting under his touch.

"I know it's been only a week –"

"Any week without seeing you is a long week." He gives her his best chivalrous smile.

She laughs. "I bet you had no time to remember me, with how busy Torchwood keeps you." An arch look in her eyes suggests she means more than just the work. Well, she knows him.

But she doesn't know everything. "There's always plenty of time to remember you." And this is true. He has been thinking of her often since she left. He can't keep his gaze from shifting down to her lips now, remembering how they felt. Not many people could boast of managing to surprise Jack Harkness with a kiss. But no matter how eagerly he may have flirted with Martha Jones, he had always supposed her an angel too many heavens above him.

She has, of course, noticed what he's looking at, and turns away with a smile. He worries for an instant – he hopes she knows that incorrigible as he is, he has a deep friendship and appreciation for her, regardless of whether there is ever going to be a follow-up to that kiss.

Still, he secretly hopes that there will be. And the secret hopes of Jack Harkness have a way of not remaining secret for long. 

"It's only that being here, seeing you," she says, continuing to look away, "and then going back and seeing… seeing everyone who doesn't know, doesn't remember. My family does, but right now they're better off not remembering every day, and… I don't know, I just could use seeing you for a while again. Talk to someone who was there." And now she looks at him, seriously.

"I know," he says, because he does know.

"I could call the Doctor, of course, I left him a phone, but…" She doesn't need to finish that, really.

"Yeah." They look at each other. Jack reaches his hand to her, can't quite bear her sadness. There are many, many things for which he sometimes wants to yell at the Doctor. Martha Jones is getting near the top of the list. The Doctor never quite appreciated how brilliant she is, and she knows it, and the knowledge does something to her and he doesn't like it. She did so damn much for him, and he won't stop to think how much it all has hurt her, everything she went through. She's so young, and she's been through more than she should. Like all of his team, of course, but at least they knew what they were getting into.

He strokes her cheekbone, and she smiles, leaning to the touch ever so slightly.He continues the movement and smiles fondly at her. 

Touching feels easier than words. They did talk, the last time. Jack knows Martha still has nightmares, Martha knows that he fills his time with work so he doesn't have time to think about everything that happened, because he has to go on. For an eternity. They don't need to say everything all over again. But they know. 

"Not only are you the only other human being who knows everything that happened," she murmurs, "you're the only one who knows what it's like… loving him and… well, you know."

"He's stupid for someone so brilliant," he says drily. "He could have you, he could have me, and honestly, who in the universe should be so lucky? Two such dazzling and irresistible people as you and me? And still, off he goes. He's mad, absolutely mad."

She laughs at that, and he's glad. She also looks a little bit flattered. "Well, he can't have me anymore. No, I'm done with that. Growing up, moving on."

"Good for you." He sighs a little ruefully. "He could still have me at the wave of his hand. No, less than that." He shakes his head. "One hundred and forty years in and then some, you'd think I'd have learned."

"Hard-headed, you are." Her soft laughter sounds like a caress.

"Sometimes."

She sobers up and sighs. "Still, never mind that, it would just be nice if he'd see, you know? See what it's all been like and why I can't just go on to the next supernova after everything that's happened."

He pulls her to himself, because that's the best way he can say things. "He can be a bit obtuse, but never let yourself think you're not good enough. You're more than any of us deserve. Including him. Him especially, I guess."

"Are you mad at him?" she asks.

"Yes and no," he answers. "I adore the bastard, always will. Doesn't mean he's not a bastard sometimes."

She chuckles, and he knows she knows it all too well. Then she quiets, and sighs against him. Her hand strays up and down his back, a caressing movement. "Never let yourself think you're not good enough, either," she says.

He is about to laugh and quip in the true Jack Harkness style, but he doesn't. Somewhere under his impervious shell, Jack needs to hear those words. Though he can't say that, not even to her. He just holds her. Her hair smells good. Her small, compact body leans against him, breathing. There's something of a bird about her, some mesmerizing night-time bird that sings even when the light is dying. A thrush, a blackbird, a nightingale, something. She's delicate and strong, melodious and soaring. He doesn't want to let her go. She feels right.

With her, he doesn't feel wrong either.

She leans her head against his shoulder. He thinks that they could stay this way for quite a long time, and he wouldn't mind. He lowers his head towards hers, until his chin rests atop her head. His lips graze the top of her hair, and the sensation makes him shiver pleasantly. Which she can't help noticing, pressed close as they are, and he feels her shift.

He releases her then, but takes hold of both of her hands. They tremble a little in his touch, they're a little warmer than they need to be. She hides her eyes from him, but smiles a little. "How long are you staying?" he asks, and she meets his eyes.

"Only until tomorrow," she says. "I'm trying to avoid almost getting killed every time I visit my friends."

"We can try that." He can't resist pulling one of her hands to his mouth, touches the knuckles with his lips. Her smile deepens. "On the off chance that you don't want to withdraw to a fancy hotel, the Hub is all yours." He holds her gaze.

"All mine, hmm?" she replies. "I wonder what I should make of that?"

"Make all you want, only… Careful near the cells, the Weevils can be irritable, and don't take any of the confidential stuff, and better stay clear of the vaults, and you don't want to go into Owen's office, trust me – well, you know all that's there already, and you're not at work. And nobody but Ianto really understands how the coffee machine works, and the pterodactyl can be a bit unpredictable."

"Prehistoric creatures usually are," she says. "Got to do with not being accustomed to humans. Did I mention when the Doctor accidentally took us to the Cretaceous period? Blimey, some of them are _fast_."

He laughs. "Damn, he never took me to see dinosaurs! He was going to, actually – he'd been meaning to show Rose – but that was just when I'd got on board, and he kept saying, 'don't trust the Captain here not to blast a hole through one just to show off'." He made a mock-offended face. "I was a Time Agent! I know not to blow holes into prehistory." 

She laughs at his face. "Well, I'm sure he just wanted to be sure you were trustworthy."

He shrugs. "To be fair, I'd almost wiped out the human race by accident two days before, so I suppose I can grant him some right to be suspicious." Seriously, at that time he'd been glad not to have been stranded on some rogue planet with no oxygen. Of course he'd argued about the dinosaurs, but mainly to get a chance to flirt with the Doctor in the process.

"Yeah, he can be tough like that", she says. Then she looks at him thoughtfully. "What was he like, before? You knew him before his regeneration. He never told me much, but he said he was a different man back then. How different?"

He closes his eyes and thinks. He doesn't even know how to begin. "Well, completely different face, body, everything. In some ways he's the same – always off for exciting new adventures, always wanting to save the world, to save everyone. In some ways, he's completely different."

"In what ways?"

He says, with a lighter tone: "Well, he didn't talk quite so much, for one thing. And he used to wear a leather jacket."

"Oh, wow, him in a leather jacket. That I'd like to see!"

He grins. "Worth seeing. I can show you some old footage from Torchwood files, if you want." Oh, he's been going through them far too often, though not much since he found the Doctor again. Just some. Okay, maybe a little bit more than some. "Although this new body is prettier. Not to say he was bad-looking before, but now…" He flashes a smile that she returns. "But he had this powerful charm, rougher and gruffer than what you see now. So intense, oh God."

"Which one do you like better?"

He pauses, not knowing the answer. "The old one was nicer to me," he admits in the end. "I suppose it helped that I wasn't wrong then." She grimaces, and is about to say something, but he continues before she can." But I think I'm even crazier about this one. Should have more sense of self-preservation, I know." He laughs ruefully as she touches his face. He closes his eyes, savouring it. "It's impossible to compare. It's always him. But he's different, too. Now it's like… he seems easier to approach, but then he'll get so harsh. Back then, once you learned how he operated, it was easier to know where you stood. Well, he always closes up a part of himself, you never quite know. I suppose it's a part of the charm."

She chuckles a little at that. But this isn't what he wants, here and now with her. He opens his eyes. They shouldn't be always talking about the Doctor, everything that is wonderful and frustrating about the man, and all the ways he has made them feel left behind, or second-best. They could do that to the end of time – well, the end of her time – and it wouldn't change facts. 

He wants her. Martha Jones, that nightingale of a girl, that heroine of the apocalypse, that amazing woman who was so small in his arms but radiated the strength of the universe. With her dazzling dark eyes, her indomitable spirit, the voice which goes right to his guts and deeper. With that mouth… And suddenly he holds her face in both hands, and looks straight into her eyes. She goes silent and swallows, but a smile is playing at the corners of her mouth. Maybe it was that smile that had made the Doctor want her along – the smile like she was constantly discovering wonders.

When he leans towards her, her face lights up, and he needs no more encouragement.

Her lips part when they meet his. Her mouth is soft and sweet, as he remembers it. She is willing to let him take the lead at first. When he deepens his explorations, though, she readily meets his tongue with her own, her hands digging into his shoulders. 

When he withdraws, her eyes are closed, a smile playing on her lips. That mouth is begging to be kissed again, so he does, and squeezes her tightly against himself. Her curves settle comfortably against his body, her hands in his hair and at his neck. He can't get enough of this. Finally, when he is quite breathless already, he pulls back, sucking lightly on her lower lip before he lets go, lightheaded from the taste and feel of her.

She is panting, too, and looks at him through half-closed eyelashes, angelically disheveled. "Wow," she breathes.

"Yeah," he replies ineloquently. Suddenly he can't even come up with a single flirtatious remark. He just looks at her, probably grinning madly. She squiggles a little, her hips brush against him just _so_ , and his breath catches, audibly. She grins. 

He lifts up a hand to trace the contours of her face with his fingers. He gently caresses her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. He breathes in her scent and feels every tremor and breath. "Martha Jones," he says, "in the case you don't want me to thoroughly ravish you and adore every bit of you, just say it."

She kisses him with unexpected force. She doesn't let go before they're both out of breath, and his lips feel swollen from her attentions. "Why on earth wouldn't I want that?" she replies in a low, breathy whisper.

She hugs him, and although he can feel every inch of her body, and knows she feels exactly how aroused he is (quite, and growing more so every moment), there is a quiet desperation in her embrace. She clings to him, and he squeezes her against himself with the same need, petting her hair awkwardly, kissing the top of her head and her earlobe. He wants to whisper sweet things that will comfort her, but he doesn't know what words will comfort either of them. In the end, touch is his best language. He will lavish it on her, loquaciously as he can. 

There is endless alteration of caresses, kisses, with the occasional words strewn in between. As their bodies grow more heated, it leads to more vigorous groping and exploration. The closeness and the desire seem to burn away some of the pain, and to bind them together in a gentler, sweeter way than through all the horrors and the hurt they've shared. A layer after layer of sadness is peeled away from Martha Jones, and she burns with a bright, delightful fire. 

He doesn't know how long it takes before they end up in his room (it doesn't feel proper to ask his lady guest to climb a ladder, but neither would it be proper to make love to her in his office or in someone else's office). She casts an eloquent gaze at his bare room, but doesn't comment. She doesn't complain of the smallness of his bed, and she fits there so well, she fits so well against him, over him, around him, and he loses himself in the sweetness of her. She cries out his name with pure joy.

****

He sleeps surprisingly well curled up against her. He wakes early, as he often does, but all is silent except for her breathing. He watches her and listens, and it feels like waves crashing against sand on a quiet sea shore. Somehow, right now, he feels warm, and safe, and right. 


End file.
